Fractured Time

Clea’s breath came in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the crumbling corridors of the tower. The ground beneath her trembled, and every step felt like it might be her last. The air was thick with dust and the acrid scent of something burning—something far older than she could comprehend.



Behind her, the walls of the Glass Tower groaned as if in pain, its ancient bones giving way to the chaos she had unleashed. The very fabric of reality seemed to be unraveling, the space around her warping and twisting, warping into something... wrong.



I’ve done it, she thought bitterly. I’ve broken it all.



She hadn’t meant to destroy the tower. She hadn’t meant to fracture time itself. But now, with every passing second, the weight of her actions pressed down on her, and she couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling in her gut. She’d only wanted to stop the creature, to stop the temptation that had been whispering in her ear. But now, with the world falling apart, she wasn’t so sure if anything she had done was for the better.



The air shifted again, the shadows bending in unnatural ways, and Clea stumbled, her hands reaching out for something, anything to hold on to. She collided with the wall—its glass-like surface cracking, the edges shimmering like ice, and a violent explosion of light and sound erupted around her. She cried out, covering her face, as the pressure in the room intensified.



Time…



She wasn’t sure if it was the glass itself speaking, or if it was her own mind, but in that instant, Clea knew: time had splintered. The creature’s influence was gone, but the damage was irreversible. Everything she had set in motion, every fracture, every crack in the tower—it had bent the flow of reality, like an unspooled thread.



She had freed the world from the creature’s grip, yes. But the cost was this. The tower had been a prison, yes. But it had also been the delicate mechanism that had held time in place.



Clea stumbled forward, her legs weak, her pulse racing. She needed to find a way out, to escape before the very structure of existence collapsed around her. The glass walls flickered, creating fractured images—visions of lives and moments that hadn’t happened yet—or perhaps had already happened, scattered across the shards of reality.



A voice, faint and familiar, whispered to her from the shattered fragments.



"Clea..."



She froze, her blood running cold.



The Keeper’s voice. But it was wrong—distorted, stretched across time, his words fragmented, broken.



"Keeper?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out toward the walls, her hands brushing against the cool, shifting surface. "Keeper, where are you? What’s happening?"



The room seemed to pulse with energy, the light bending around her, and then—there, in one of the broken panes of glass, she saw something. A face.



Her face.



Or someone who looked like her.



The vision flickered again, and Clea’s breath caught in her throat. She saw herself standing in the middle of the collapsing tower, but there was a difference. Her eyes were wide with terror, her hands pressed against her chest. She was… screaming.



The vision shifted, and now it was as though time itself fractured around her. There were multiple Cleas—dozens, hundreds, all at different points in time, some reaching for something, some falling, others crying out in silent screams, all scattered in a mosaic of broken realities.



She couldn’t make sense of it.



A dizzying feeling gripped her. She was everywhere.



She slammed her palms against the glass, a surge of panic threatening to overwhelm her. The broken images seemed to respond, shifting and twisting faster, like the room was becoming a kaleidoscope of fractured lives.



"Keeper!" she shouted again, louder this time. "What’s happening to me?"



The Keeper’s voice came again, softer now. "You’ve broken time, Clea. You’ve torn the threads, unraveled the past and future. The glass was never just a prison. It was a keeper of time, a filter for reality. Without it, time is no longer linear. It’s slipping, splintering."



Clea’s legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, her head spinning. This wasn’t just the tower collapsing. It was the end of time itself. Everything—the people, the places, the memories—was becoming distorted, impossible to grasp.



And at the center of it all, Clea was at the heart of the break.



She had chosen to shatter the creature’s hold, to undo its power. But in doing so, she had unwittingly undone the world itself.



"The creature was a part of this," the Keeper continued, his voice distant, as though it were coming from a place far beyond her reach. "It was never just a monster. It was a reflection of time’s true nature—chaos. You thought you could control it, but you’ve unleashed it. Now, everything is fraying at the edges. Nothing is fixed. The glass is shattered. And you—" His voice paused, as if searching for the right words. "You were always part of it, Clea. Always meant to fix this."



Clea stared at the fragmented vision of herself, the hundreds of reflections twisting like broken glass. The Keeper was right. She had always been tied to this place, to this fate. But now, everything she thought she knew was in pieces.



Tears blurred her vision as she struggled to her feet, her mind racing. How can I fix this?



The floor beneath her cracked, the vibrations shaking through her bones, and in that moment, Clea knew: time was slipping away. She was running out of it.



She had a choice.



But was there a way to fix this, or was everything truly lost?



The Keeper’s voice, now a mere whisper, reached her ears one last time.



"Clea… it's not too late."